Picking Up The Pieces
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: Starts after Warrick's death, when Sara and Grissom are in bed and the lab is calling... I love that scene. Oh, GSR! ...Of course.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, the characters from CSI, or the scenes referenced within. :)

A/N: Another one I won't be updating regularly, so please bear with me. Reviews are loved, and appreciated!

Also, proof-reading will be minimal, fair warning.

Oh, and another thing... I added lines when I switched perspectives, to keep it from being too confusing... this is the only chapter it's a problem in. So, when you cross a line, there's no change in time, just who is thinking/speaking etc. ...hope that's clear.

Thanks! Enjoy :)

* * *

They lay in bed, the words they had just spoken ringing in their heads.

_His phone was ringing._

_"That's the lab again. …Do you want to get it?"_

_"No."_

_"Maybe we should go away for a while."_

_"I can't. We're so short… Why don't you stay?"_

"_I can't stay here. … It would be nice to take a trip. I don't know… get on the Sea Shepherd… go to the Galapagos. We could… literally walk in the footsteps of Darwin."_

_She rubbed his chest, fingers running over the buttons, and he placed a hand over hers, but they hadn't spoken since._

He sighed heavily, pulling from her, even though it had been a long time since he'd held her like this. After Warrick's funeral, they had laid in bed together, through the night, awake and in silence.

Before she'd left him, they had always buried their grief in each other's arms… Grissom didn't know if he could still touch her in that way. Her rejection would be too much, with everything else going on. So he had done nothing, and neither had gotten much sleep.

He couldn't leave, not now, with everything that had happened… and she couldn't stay. He quelled his anger, pushing it aside—he hardly had the energy for it anyway. He hardly felt awake.

He did not kiss her, but paused at the door to the bedroom, looking back at her. He had not wanted to leave her, but the lab had already called him twice, and he knew they would be trying again. Without Warrick, they could hardly go without him as well.

Her eyes had locked on his, and he had been forced to break their gaze, leaving without a word. He had heard her sigh once he was out of sight, but he did not turn around. He did not know their boundaries anymore… and before Warrick's funeral, he had been less concerned—now it was a constant worry, a constant pain.

How could he continue to lay in bed with the only woman he had ever loved—who had left with only a letter and a goodbye kiss—and not know how to be with her?

He tried to keep her from his mind that night as he looked over the body of a woman in an alley—between seeing her again and Warrick's death, it felt like he could hardly breathe these days. There was a pressure in his chest that he couldn't shake—a desperation seething beneath the surface of his skin.

How good it had felt to hold her—but how her proximity now shook him to his core. He had returned to find her sleeping—a bit of a discomfort to him; she had never been able to sleep nights before…not after so many years on the graveyard shift. Even when she'd switched to swing after their relationship had come out in the open… she'd had to catch her sleep in pieces. She had always been so tired…

He changed into pajamas, sliding into bed with trepidation, feeling guilty that he was discomforted by the fact that she could finally sleep peacefully. He had _wanted_ that, once upon a time… she'd been having nightmares of her night in the desert, under the car, even up until she left. He wasn't sure when she'd stopped having them, but the few nights she'd been there, she had slept soundly.

As soon as he had settled himself, he felt her curl up against him again. His heart pounded in his chest and he wrapped an arm around her.

"How was your shift…?" She asked him sleepily. A sigh escaped his lips.

"Hard. Warrick…"

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, but she understood. And then, as if she knew that she had left him not knowing what to expect from them, she offered them both the relief they needed, capturing his lips in a kiss that burned with everything between them that was so hard and so hurtful and yet unimportant in this moment.

Their lovemaking was passionate and urgent, though it lasted over an hour—neither wanted to give up the contact, the feel of skin, the lost feeling of togetherness that was intoxicating, if unavoidably fleeting. When they finally collapsed, having drawn every last drop of pain and love and unspoken loss from each other, there were no words that needed to be spoken. They had fallen asleep, intertwined.

Grissom's alarm went off too soon, and he reluctantly realized she was no longer in his bed. He showered, again with the pressure hard in his chest, and dressed, making his way out to the kitchen where she sat on one of the bar stools they had picked out together, coffee in hand.

She was more beautiful each time he saw her, but it was not the uplifting feeling he used to have, admiring her beauty—it was as if it added weight to his shoulders, making it harder to move, harder to deal with the suffocating pressure in his chest.

"Coffee's fresh…" she muttered to him, not glancing up from the magazine before her. He tilted his head, pouring himself the obligatory cup.

"Since when do you read Cosmo?"

Her smile was cynical, harder than he remembered. "I had to stop reading forensic journals, and I avoid news from Vegas like the plague…"

She did not say 'Vegas' like the tourists did—an exciting way to reference an exciting place. It was expressionless, but still fell from her lips with distain—it was shortened because to say the entire name would prolong the bad taste it left in her mouth—the city of sin had no place in her heart.

Grissom drank without responding—was he not an intrinsic part of the city of sin? Could she separate this city in her mind from him himself? He doubted it. She had moved here, entered this life, for him.

When he didn't respond, she continued. "So, what case are you working on?"

"Woman found in an alley…blunt force trauma… We're going to try to get ahold of her family today, see if they know anything…"

* * *

She nodded, wanting to know about his day, what was occupying his mind, but not wanting to hear about the crimes. It was still too hard for her—the suffocating feeling now in Grissom's chest was what leaving Vegas had finally freed her from, and she had no wish to endure it again. She would not get her wish, however; the city sucks you in.

Grissom left without eating, stopping to kiss her before he had gone—the heat between them electric, but somehow thin and brittle, fragile. Her phone rang just shy of ten minutes after he had gone, and then she was driving.

Greg had been called to the scene of Pam Adler—she had been a rape and assault victim whose case Sara had been very personally involved in. She was beaten nearly to death but, having been 'too strong to die,' they hadn't been able to convict her assailant with murder—he had spent some time in juvenile detention.

Sara had visited Pam for years, getting to know her husband Tom fairly well—she had felt for him, because he had been so happy that she was going to live, he hadn't even realized that she was so severely injured that she would be in a vegetative state for the rest of her life.

Apparently, Tom had disconnected her breathing tube and killed her. Though she hadn't wanted to be involved in cases, Pam had been one of those cases she had nightmares about—one she would never be able to distance herself from, even if she never spoke of it again.

When she arrived, she was told that Tom had been harassed—told that his wife had been assaulted again, when he wasn't there, but there was no evidence to back up his claims. She told him she would be with him, and help him, and followed him down to the police station, arguing with the detective who arrested him for the murder of his wife.

When he would not back down—saying that he was looking into the man's claims, but that the law was clear that disconnecting someone from life support was felony murder—she instead went to Grissom. She just could not be uninvolved—could not let this man, who had been terrorized, take the fall for the asshole who had taken his wife from him in the first place.

He looked surprised when she entered, and cautious, but not displeased.

She sat down almost aggressively in the chair before his desk, the chair she had sat in so many times before now, and explained the situation. Grissom sighed, remembering the case and also how emotionally involved Sara had been—he did not agree with her complete faith in the husband, not least of all because there was no physical evidence… but how did he explain this without her getting upset? The pressure under his ribs intensified, but he continued anyway.

"None of the calls to Tom Adler's home phone could be traced back to Tony Thorpe."

"Well, he could have used a pay phone or a disposable phone…"

"There's no evidence Thorpe was ever in Pam Adler's room. No trace of him on her or in her… and Doc Robbins found no sign of sexual assault."

"Yeah, but we don't know when that happened, and we both know that semen deteriorates within twelve to twenty four hours…"

He pursed his lips in frustration. "Sara, you have to consider the possibility that the husband made up the story to justify his actions."

"No. Absolutely not."

"I'm not saying he didn't love her; he loved her so much that he kept her alive for eight years. You're still a scientist. You know that after that many years of atrophy, she wasn't coming back to him. …I mean, sooner or later, a relationship in stasis withers. You get angry. … You need more than the safety of knowing that you're not alone."

"Then he should have just walked away."

"Well, maybe he couldn't… maybe he needed her to leave him."

"Who are we talking about right now?" Grissom looked down, met her eyes again, but couldn't hold them. He wasn't sure if he wasn't talking about Sara and himself. He wasn't really sure of anything. She got up as aggressively as she had sat down, leaving him alone.

With difficulty, he returned his thoughts to the now known-to-be-missing child of the dead woman in the alley. He had never been one to let his personal life interfere at work, even if he took this mantra too far at times—it had almost cost him the time he'd had with Sara which, angry though he might be, he would not give up now for anything.

To Sara's relief, Greg had come through for her as Grissom had not. The statute of limitations had changed—when Pam Adler had been assaulted, her assailant could be charged with murder if she died from his attack up to a year and a day after it had happened. Now, if she ever died from reasons related to his attack, he could be charged with first degree murder—that gave him motive to provoke the husband to try and protect her in any way he could.

But if they could prove it, it would be murder by proxy—the husband would go free.

She talked to the detective, burning in her indignation and the rightness of her convictions, and they called Tony Thorpe in for questioning… He was in a wheelchair. He had been since last Christmas—there was no way he could have assaulted Pam Adler.

The burning indignation went out like a flame in the wind, and she suddenly felt a sickness in her heart that the fire had left in its wake… Tom must have lied. She went to Tom then, in the investigation room, but there wasn't the righteousness in her words anymore… she just felt empty, hollow.

She sat down. "We, uh, found Thorpe. …Why'd you lie to me, Tom?"

"I can't win for losing. People told me I was selfish keeping her alive for so long, and now look at me. Mostly I was pissed that he's out walking around. And whenever I wasn't working or paying for her care, I was just sitting by that bed. After a while, I realized the only one feeling any suffering was me. I just wasn't living. But I just couldn't move on and leave her there like that…"

"You could have asked the doctors to help you."

"By telling them what? That I was tired? I wanted them to kill my wife so I could… have a weekend to myself?"

"…At least that would have been honest."

She got up and walked away from him, nothing but disgust filling her up, her hands shaking. She couldn't think straight, could hardly breathe, and arrived at the townhouse she and Grissom had shared without any real comprehension of how she'd arrived.

She was hyperventilating as she packed her things, and took a moment to calm herself—Grissom, she knew, was in an interrogation room with the previously missing child's teenage father. She had a minute—she wouldn't have to see him before she left, and she had a minute. She stopped, breathing in an out, and then looked at her bag.

On top was a silky, medium purple nightie, trimmed in white lace. She hadn't been much for lingerie, but she had purchased it the day that Grissom had asked her to marry him, and worn it that night, to make up for the bee suit... She had brought it with her on a whim, and this morning had even had it in her head that she would be wearing it when he returned home the next morning, at the end of tonight's shift…

She hesitated, and then took it from her bag and tucked into his underwear drawer. That's where it had lived, before she left… that's where it belonged. She could never wear it for anyone else…

She double-checked her bag, zipping it closed, and then retrieved it, her jacket, and her purse from the bed. She had made it before leaving—she had told herself it was to be nice… Grissom had liked coming home to the house being cleaned, even though he was a little messy himself.

In the back of her mind, however, she feared that her old neuroses were coming back. Before she had left, she had never left the house without making the bed and taking out the garbage, just in case she was killed and someone would be in the house, investigating.

She paused in the kitchen, scratching Hank behind the ears, and contemplating leaving another letter. Her lips twisted—she couldn't bring herself to write another one and she was not foolish enough to believe that it would help anything. Grissom would be hurt again regardless.

She took one last look around the home they had made together, saddened by how little it had changed since she'd gone—Grissom really wasn't dealing with her leaving—and then left, locking the door on her way out.

* * *

Grissom sat in the interrogation room, confronted with the eighteen year old he now knew to be the woman's lover, not her son… she had been his guidance counselor, and they'd run away together when he was fifteen. The missing child had been his… and he had killed his lover, when she gave their baby away for a gambling debt.

Grissom was calm—it was hard to get him riled up in an interrogation—until the boy asked him "Have you ever loved someone so much you would kill for them?"

He looked up in surprise, his brunette beauty swimming in the forefront of his mind.

"I do. And even if Lexie can't be with me, she's better off without _her_! …She promised me everything… and then she took it all away."

The boy broke down crying, and Grissom felt Sara's leaving all over again, deep in his core. He didn't have to wait to return home that night to know she had gone again.

He collapsed on the bed, the pain of it crippling, tears falling unbidden down his face. The boy's words rang in his head. _She promised me everything… and then she took it all away._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I promise the story will pick up in the next chapter or so... now that we have all of this out of the way! :)

* * *

It was almost five weeks before Grissom heard from Sara again. He had finally started to feel like he could breathe again—the pressure was there, but his lungs had fought back for their place in his chest. He was functioning—working, sleeping, walking Hank.

It was a video sent in an email—no text. He loaded the video, watching in a stunned and disbelieving silence, amazed that he could lose her more than he already had, and felt his lungs lose the fight. Though he hadn't moved, the breath was forced from his lungs and he gasped, trying to regain his footing in reality. He gripped the edge of his desk and, though it hurt, he grit his teeth and replayed the video, analyzing each word and each movement.

She said she was happy—she looked happy. No bags under her eyes, her skin looked fresh and vibrant—like she'd spent some needed time in the sun. His phone rang again—he'd ignored it the first time. It was pouring outside—if it were an outdoor crime scene, he was losing precious time.

He willed himself to breath in and out—turn off the computer, stand, put on his coat and hat and boots, grab his kit, find his keys. It was a moment by moment effort, but he made it out to the car, and started driving…the rain seemed to make the pressure worse, but he focused on moving mile by mile, step by step, always forward.

Her words played in his head over and over as he stood in the rain, attempting to focus.

_I thought we could survive anything…_

A trucker had spotted the body and called it in…

_You said a lot of things that I tried not to hear…_

The face was imbedded with asphalt.

_That last year in Vegas, I could barely breathe, let alone…think._

Dead two to four hours.

_For the first time in a long time, I'm really happy._

Fingers and toes gone.

_I've been thinking about us a lot, all the moments…_

Ligature marks around the wrists.

_There's even a marine biologist that reminds me a little of you…_

He'd been dragged…

_Sometimes not making a decision _is_ a making a decision._

Burnt motor oil on the underside of his shirt…

_It's better this way._

"We gotta get this body outta here!" He shouted, above the rain and above her voice reverberating endlessly in his head.

When they arrived at the lab, his head was now pounding—the inability to breathe deeply an almost crippling wound, drawing his eyes out of focus. Nick was speaking to him—something about a shirt—he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to make his brain recognize what his ears were hearing. It's too late—he caught the tail end. He's asking about a migraine. Grissom tries to respond, but no words will come.

_I think you were right…_

God, he'd done this to himself. He cringed, turning away from the table, and forced another deep breath into his lungs. He turned then, forcing himself to examine the evidence, examine what he knew. He was a professional, after all. There were deep puncture marks around the man's nipples… Nick returned, having passed the shirt off to Brass. Grissom took the escape he was given, quickly explaining the puncture marks and then retreating back to his office—Doc Robbins wouldn't be ready to autopsy his body for at least a few minutes. He couldn't help it—he had to watch it again. He had to understand what she was saying.

Before playing it again, he carefully regulated his breathing, trying to distance himself—to view her words logically, as if they didn't hurt. He wanted to be sure of her meaning in concrete terms. He exhaled slowly, and clicked play. Her face popped on the screen and Grissom had to grit his teeth and remind himself that he was being logical—it just hurt to see her so…happy. She was glowing and he was suffocating. He regained his composure, forcing himself to listen as she began to speak.

"_Hello from below the equator, in Puerto Ayora. We've been at sea for over a month now. Man, you wouldn't believe the crew - students, activists, scientists - the dinner conversations alone are mind-blowing. And there's even this marine biologist that reminds me a little bit of you. I wish that we could talk in person but this is the best that I can do._

_I want to apologize for being out of touch. I've been thinking about us a lot, though, all the moments... I thought we could survive anything. This trip has given me a lot of clarity. That last year in Vegas, I could barely breathe, let alone think, but now, for the first time in a really long time, I'm happy._

Before I left, you said some things that I tried not to hear, but now...I think you were right. If a relationship can't move forward, it withers. I've been waiting for you to decide but… sometimes not making a decision is making a decision. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, you don't have to worry about me anymore. I'm good. I'm really good and honestly, I think it's better this way."

He was a scientist—he could look at this logically. The trip had given her clarity—she'd been thinking about the things he'd said before she left again. She'd been thinking about Tom Adler, who had removed his wife from life support because he could not escape a dead relationship. He had said that maybe Tom couldn't leave—maybe he'd needed Pam to leave him. So, she was… letting him go.

She was trying to leave him so that he wouldn't be angry, wouldn't be…stuck with her. He sighed, more sadly this time. Understanding did not make the finality of her words any easier. Did she have any right to look so happy when he walked around with the weight of an entire lost future upon his shoulders?

He was paged then—Doc Robbins was ready to go over his victim. He closed the computer, angry again. He had once said he wanted her to be happy—that that was why he hadn't gone after her. In truth, that was a very small part of it. He did want her to be happy—really and truly—he had just never wanted her to be happy without him.

Her happiness had been intrinsically linked in his mind to himself for a decade now—it was selfish and arrogant, but true. He hurt too much to hide behind an idealized picture of himself. He was selfish and arrogant, and he didn't want to chase after someone who had left him so easily. He didn't want to find her and be turned away.

He arrived in the morgue then, and realized, when he was immediately able to focus, that forcing himself to analyze her video logically rather than emotionally had helped. At the very least, it meant that she still loved him. She had said she was waiting for him to make a decision—she had continued to wait for him as she had waited seven years before they got together. It did not lift the weight, but he could breathe again.

Doc Robbins told him the puncture marks were not from drug use, and that they'd been done in a pattern. His tongue showed burn marks from an electrical charge. Cause of death was strangulation. He looked at the body—the signs of trauma and the torture they implied—and on a whim, sheer gut instinct, collected his papers and marched from the lab.

He didn't know what made him drive to Heather's house… what held him back as he stood in the rain outside, contemplating his decision, but finally he moved to the door, knocking and waiting, too empty to be nervous.

Through a muddled explanation, Grissom felt the tightness returning—logic could only hold off the hysterics for long, after all. It was a relief when she finally invited him inside—struggling with small talk and accepting tea and a dry shirt expressionlessly. He finally got around to the case—asking her expert opinion on the victim apparently involved in S&M—it was strange, but he's all but forgotten about the case once he'd arrived there.

The rest of the discussion was a blur—Heather answered questions, looked at pictures, fit the pieces together, but Grissom was distant—like he was viewing everything from beyond a barrier—words came thick and incoherent, like he was listening underwater. The only time his head broke the surface was when Heather asked him about Sara.

He had been defensive, at first, not wishing to share his pain—it had become the most intimate part of him—the place where Sara lived. Eventually, however, and without full understanding of why he had done so, he was speaking about her more freely than he had to anyone, ever. She asked why he didn't go after her and, though he said there had been lots of reasons, he felt as if he could not name one.

She said something exactly as Sara had—he had made the decision when he didn't make it—he had lost Sara because he had done nothing when she left. He just… didn't know why he hadn't.

"I think you're here because it's not home and it's not work. And this is the only place that doesn't remind you of Sara." He let her words wash over him, but did not respond—he didn't have the strength to deny her claim. "I have a guest bedroom upstairs. You can stay as long as you want."

He had not known how to respond—but it did not take him long to realize the truth of her words. A fear welled up inside him at the thought of returning to the home they had built together—pictures of the two of them still on the fridge, soy milk inside it because he somehow now preferred it, and the smell of her in their bed, lingering—and finding it empty.

So he stayed, settling himself into the room with a weak sort of desperation. He lay there, staring at the wall, contemplating his inadequacies. Why hadn't he gone after her? He had known he could not bring her back to Vegas… Was it the city that held him? The job? Their team?

He loved the team—loved them more than anything but Sara herself—but Sara did trump them, easily. She was everything and, foolish as he was, he was left with nothing.

He heard Heather in the hallway when it reached midnight and he had not moved nor turned off his light. She knew he wasn't sleeping, but he did not turn to acknowledge her, and so, after a moment, she turned to leave. Grissom lay there under her gaze, wanting anything to distract him from the pain that was everything he had lost so many times now that he could not even count them, and feeling like Heather had been the only comfort he'd received since Sara had left again.

He heard her lift her weight from the door frame, moving to leave, and a sense of desperation filled him, welling up with more speed and strength and aching loneliness than he thought he could bear—so he stopped her.

"Heather…Would you stay?" She paused in the doorway, and then he heard the door close. She wasn't Sara—no one would ever be Sara—but at least he wouldn't be alone tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own...

A/N: Review! Let me know what you think! ...pretty peas? :)

* * *

Sara checked her email nearly every waking hour for the next few weeks, but when Grissom didn't respond, she began to stop hoping. After all, her intention had been to set him free—she was pulling her own breathing tube, because he had needed it—and if he was now free, then maybe she could be happy. She had cried for hours after clicking send—it had been the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life, to let him go… to hold back her tears as she spoke.

She hadn't been lying—she _was_ happy here, and the trip _had_ given her clarity; she got her fill of the life side of science rather than the death side now, but that didn't mean she didn't love him.

She had loved him for as long as she could remember—anything that had happened prior to meeting Gil Grissom ceased to have meaning for her. She hadn't buried her ghosts, not entirely, but she kept them at bay. It was only in Vegas she still struggled with them.

Gil was an intrinsic part of that place—the angel protecting the lost souls who've wandered into the unforgiving labyrinth of the underworld. She could not imagine him giving up the lab any more than he could—she had never expected him to follow—but she had expected him to try. They couldn't be together, because his greater purpose was to exist in a place that would destroy her. It _was_ better this way.

…It was the only way.

Once she had stopped waiting for him to respond—to argue that it was not what he had wanted—that a relationship with her, _even in stasis_, was as intrinsic to his being as Vegas was—she was able to go back into the sun and live the life she had created for herself.

She felt his loss more acutely now—before he had still been hers, even if she couldn't hold him—and now he was not. She carried the emptiness with her like an albatross about her neck, but it haunted her less than her past, so she endured it.

They had stopped in Puerto Ayora, one of the largest cities in the Galapagos Islands, and would stay here about a month, before moving on to Costa Rica. She had wasted weeks of her time here, waiting on the man she'd waited her whole life on. With a new energy in her step and a new set in her shoulders, she ignored her bird necklace and set out to explore the island, the plant and animal life—she would walk in Darwin's footsteps whether Gil accompanied her or not.

She chanced upon a companion from her trip—the marine biologist she had told Gil reminded her of him. His name was Ian—he was ten years her senior, but this age difference seemed insignificant after Gil. She would not have realized that she was attracted to older men had he not pointed it out, asking would she not rather explore with the students.

She had laughed in surprise—she was 37, with a birthday approaching. While it was flattering to be thought so young, Sara realized that at 26 she still would have linked herself with the elder members of the journey more readily than the students… for there to be any question now was absurd. Gil would have known that.

What initially drew Sara Sidle to Ian Peterson _were_ his resemblances to a certain entomologist. While his curls were too loose—waves more than curls—and steely gray rather than salt and pepper, they were reminiscent. His eyes were green, and lacked the vision and intelligence and intensity of _his_, but in the dark they looked almost blue.

He had invited her to come to a beach early one morning—he had tapped on her door at four a.m. and she had been ready. They sat on the black rocks—evidence of the archipelago's violent birth—and watched marine iguanas from a distance—He told her they were more aggressive when cold, because they were more vulnerable.

It hadn't been pitch black—not like the nights on grave yard, but dark enough to disguise his eyes' true colors. She had stared at them, missing the man they reminded her of, and Ian had misinterpreted her gaze. He kissed her and though his lips were not right—could never fit hers in that puzzle-piece kind of way—they were soft and warm and gentle.

She broke the kiss but smiled at him, and had returned to the boat and her room an hour later, not allowing him to kiss her at her door. She listened to the sounds of his footsteps retreating and then his door open and close before she breathed a sigh of relief. She felt guilty—he had been the first man she'd kissed since Grissom.

She immediately checked her email—he still hadn't answered her. She lay down on her bed, too tired for sleep. Waking up at this hour (and not being exhausted by the man she woke to love) made her body remember a time when this was daytime. She rested her hands on her stomach, thinking about the kiss.

She had expected to feel lonelier, if she ever kissed someone else. She felt guilty, disappointed… a raw aching in her chest for the _other_ lips—softer, gentler, warmer, and infinitely more knowledgeable about her lips and her body and her heart—but not lonely.

She remembered being with Hank—before she knew that she was the other woman in his life. He had never replaced Grissom, never dulled her wanting or the pain of not receiving, but he had been company… a warm body and a soft voice. She could never love Ian, but she could like him… she could spend some time with him.

Maybe if she did, she wouldn't still be checking her email in vain in another ten years.

She half-laughed at her own thoughts. Of course she would be… but it might be less often, if she learned to find distraction in the arms of strangers.

Ian was intelligent and much less socially awkward than Gil had been—he was unlikely to spend a night away with a high class prostitute and allow her to find out through the lab because he was her alibi… and the best part was that he came with an expiration date. They would spend a month in Costa Rica, and then a month and a half on the ship, returning home. He would go home to Boston, and she would say she was going back to Vegas.

…This wasn't true, of course. She was never going back to Vegas.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! This chapter might make you sad, but the next one might make you happy, so please keep reading! Thanks!

* * *

Sara was unsurprised and untroubled when he asked her that afternoon to have dinner with him that night. She accepted without hesitation and they went to a nice restaurant in town—it was a tourist spot, but it meant that Sara did not have to struggle to find a vegetarian dish that wasn't a salad.

She laughed freely with him, though his jokes were less clever than Gil's—perhaps more funny, but also more likely to be scientifically inaccurate. He liked to use quotations in casual conversation, but he did not manage to do so eloquently, and Sara bit her tongue more than once to prevent herself correcting a mis-phrasing of a line Gil had delivered correctly.

The wine was good, if strong, and they went for a walk along the beach to see the sea lions coming to shore to sleep. It was then that the inevitable came up, but Sara had prepared herself for his question.

"So, tell me about Vegas. That's 'home' for you, isn't it? Were you born there?"

She took a deep breath. "No, I wasn't… I was born in California. I left to go to school and then came back, went to Berkley, for grad school. I moved to Vegas when… my mentor called me in for a favor, and then offered me a job as a permanent CSI."

"Your mentor?"

She shrugged. He didn't need to know more than that. "Yeah, he was a speaker at several forensic academy conferences… he inspired me to be better than I was."

"What's he like?"

Her lips twisted, but she caught herself and faked a smile instead. "Brilliant but… hard to connect to on a personal level… He's an entomologist. I sometimes thought he was more comfortable around his bugs than having a conversation with another person."

The side of his mouth hitched up in a grin. "You seem like the type of person who would choose an eccentric genius for a mentor."

Her smile was genuine this time. It was not a bad description of Gil. "The others were friendlier though… Warrick, he…" Her breath hitched in her throat, but she continued. "…he just died, actually, in action." She looked down. "It was part of the reason I came on this trip but, uh, he was… the most genuine, devoted man you'd ever meet. Down-to-Earth, honest, loyal…"

He smiled softly. "Were you lovers?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Warrick and I? No, never."

"You just… speak so fondly of him. I wouldn't be upset, Sara…"

She nodded. "No, I know… no, I was never with anyone on the team…" The boss didn't really count as 'on the team,' did he? He didn't speak, so she continued.

"Catherine was… god, one hell of a woman. She had this… just, asshole of an ex-husband who she'd supported their entire marriage by being a stripper. She had a cop who was a regular…respected her…encouraged her to go to night school, enter forensics. She's… tough as nails, brave and beautiful and strong. She raised a daughter on her own, worked her way up at the lab, took care of the eccentric genius when he got stuck in his microscope… She makes me… proud to be a woman. Greggo wouldn't be half the CSI he is today if it hadn't been for her…

"Not that he wasn't good in his own right. He just… needed her to keep him focused, build up his self-esteem, tell him that he was capable. She had so much confidence on her own that… just spending any amount of time with her made _you_ feel confident too…"

She smiled at her own memory and continued. "Greg was a lab rat before he turned CSI… we often caught him wearing the evidence, especially if it was women's clothing, for some reason…" Ian chuckled with her and took her hand in his. It didn't make her heart flutter the way such a gesture ought to, but her hand was cold, and his was warm, and she felt the need for human contact now, realizing how far she was from the ones she loved.

"Nick was a lot like Warrick. Down-to-earth and kind, with a little bit of silliness mixed in. We were always competing for Grissom's approval. …He was kidnapped once… one of the worst days of my life. We were sent a USB drive with a link to a web cam of him, buried alive, in glass coffin. We were all so… horrified and scared. We watched him lose hope, while we desperately tried to find him…"

Ian watched her closely. "How did you find him?"

She tilted her head, the wry smile back. "The coffin cracked from the weight of the dirt and him trying to break himself out. Fire ants were crawling on him… biting him."

"Let me guess. The entomologist…"

She smiled and he squeezed her hand. "Yeah, Fire ants are rare in Vegas… they're only really found in nurseries… we narrowed the search by what we knew about the suspect and…"

"I think it must have been hard for you to give up that work. The way you talk about it… it was a passion."

Her lips twisted and she didn't hide it this time. "The puzzles… the making a difference… I was passionate about that, yes. It was a job I could be challenged at daily, and the reward was providing justice… but as a CSI, you don't have any control over the courts, the juries… so many times justice wasn't served, and you couldn't do anything about it… and then it becomes an obsession. You have to find enough evidence so the DA can nail the guy because, otherwise, you'll be seeing his next victims in a few months… You feel responsible for the people you couldn't save, you stay up at night thinking about it, dreaming about it…"

His arm slipped around her shoulder. "I guess I don't need to ask why you left…"

She allowed him to pull her against his body and caught a whiff of his deodorant—it wasn't Gil's but Nicky's. It made her feel like home, however, and she smiled up at him. He bent quickly and caught her lips again, and she kissed him back this time. It didn't matter whose face she saw when her eyes flickered closed… he was here, and it was the first time in a long time that she hadn't felt alone.

She hesitated, but invited him in that night, despite the size of the single bed in her cabin and the thinness of the walls. He didn't fit her any better than his lips had, but in the darkness her mind filled in the mistakes. She muffled herself in her pillows, which was good anyway—she was in great danger of saying the name of the man behind her eyelids rather than the man between her legs.

He fell asleep quickly, but Sara lay awake for a while, wondering if her actions had been a betrayal. He hadn't emailed her back… hadn't contacted her. It had been two months since she'd seen him or talked to him, more than three weeks since she'd sent the email.

She had… finally given him what he needed from her, and now he could move on. It hurt, but she closed her eyes and slept—more fitfully than normal—but more soundly than she ever had at home. As long as he was happy, she just needed to survive…get through each day…As long as he was happy.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Please review! It makes me happy!

* * *

It was not until the day they were leaving Puerto Ayora that Sara realized she had not had a period since San Francisco. She had stopped taking birth control when she left Grissom, no longer needing the protection and realizing she'd probably strained her body, having taken it for so many years.

It had been with slight bitterness that she did this—she would never have a baby. It had never been an ever-present thought, but in the back of her head, a future hope and prospect always. She had expected going off it to mess with her cycle, and it did—she spotted for weeks, had heavy periods, skipped periods entirely… it had finally evened itself out, although she had always had trouble with skipping periods when her sleep patterns changed.

When she had moved to the graveyard shift she'd gone three months without one—she would have panicked if she'd had sex any time recently. When she switched to swing shift, after she and Gil came out in the open, she had missed one and the second had started and stopped.

Gil had asked her all too supportingly if she wanted to get a pregnancy test, but she didn't—she knew better. So when it occurred to her that she'd gone without them now, it was with very little concern. It would come eventually—she would just have to remember to have something in her pockets, just in case she was caught in a bad situation.

She was not concerned about Ian—they had used condoms every time, though they chaffed and burned her—she had never wanted a barrier between her and Gil, though it had made him nervous at first, but Ian was not worth the risk—she examined the condoms left in her trash after he'd gone, just to be sure. She was nothing if not thorough.

When they got back out to sea, Sara was surprised to feel motion sickness. Ian took her to the nurse despite her protests, and she was given Dramamine to deal with the nausea, which came and went at all hours of the day. Ian rationalized that she had gotten used to the waves in the harbor—going back out into the ocean was a shift from that. Of course she would react.

She argued feebly that she hadn't gotten sick the first time they left shore, but he shook his head knowingly. "It's different for everyone, Sara. I used to be fine for the first two weeks, and then be sick as a dog for a week, and then be perfectly fine the rest of the trip. Come on, let's just take your medicine and get you to bed."

Sick as she was, she didn't complain, although she did not take kindly to him directing her actions—she was sleeping with him, but that didn't mean she trusted him. She let him guide her to the room, where she wretched again in the bathroom, and then changed into pajama shorts and a tank top. She had wanted to put on an old pair of Gil's boxer shorts she had stolen—she didn't usually wear them because it hurt, but as she wasn't feeling good, and she felt it was an indulgence she deserved—but she couldn't wear them without needing to give an explanation.

She lay in bed, taking her medicine and closing her eyes. He sat himself by her feet, pulling them up into his lap and beginning to rub them softly. She was nearly asleep when his words cut into her mind. "I didn't know you had a tattoo…" His thumb ran over the top of her ankle, where the small flower had been inked into her skin. "When did you get this…?"

"College…" He smirked, noting the drowsiness in her voice.

"I'll let you sleep, sweetheart." He kissed her forehead, slid her small garbage over from her desk to rest beside the bed, and left, still chuckling. Her eyes closed thankfully, wanting him to leave so she could wallow in peace.

The Dramamine did help a little, but it made her very sleepy, and before she knew it she was drifting off to sleep. When she woke up, it was the middle of the night, and she no longer felt sick or sleepy.

The doctor had said Dramamine was pretty quick to take effect, so she figured she could wait until she felt nauseous again before she took any more. Being up in the middle of the night wasn't going to help her sleep habits though—she tried to avoid being awake at night—it was part of the reason she could keep the ghosts away.

She rolled onto her side and smelled Ian's deodorant on her pillow. If it wasn't also Nick's, she wouldn't have liked its presence there, but the smell made her think of the only family she'd ever had—Gil, Nick, Catherine and Lindsey, Jim, Warrick, and Greggo. She thought idly of what they were doing—probably all working tonight, unless they'd hired another CSI to replace Warrick yet…

She got up on a whim, moving to her computer and watching it load slowly. Maybe she would email Nick or Greg… see how everything was going. Grissom was free, but that didn't mean she couldn't stay friends with the guys, right?

She sighed, looking at the date at the bottom of her screen. Two and a half months since she'd seen Gil, five weeks since she'd sent the email. It had been over a month—she couldn't expect him to respond at this point. She wouldn't let herself get her hopes up. She opened her email without checking the inbox, clicking 'new message' impatiently and then realizing, once she got there, that she didn't know their email addresses offhand.

So she clicked 'inbox' impatiently, planning to search for an old email from either of them—she would address it to both of them, and ask them to please tell Jim and Catherine hello. That seemed fair… they were too close to Gil, anyway.

The inbox loaded then, and she looked through the junk she received every day, deleting it and then continuing down to find what she was looking for. Greg won out—the last of the two to have sent her a message. She hit reply and erased the subject and previous email—more than a year old—so that it was now a blank email with his email address in the 'to' box.

She sighed, her fingers resting on the keyboard, uncertain what to say. She took a deep breath and began typing.

_Hey Greggo, I guess I just thought it's been a while… I wanted to see how everyone was doing. This is directed to you and Nicky, by the way… I didn't want to send it twice, and then if I did, I would feel guilty for not sending one to Jim and Catherine and you know how close she is to Gil…_

She paused, considering, and then erased, replacing the last word with 'Grissom' instead.

_I'm actually on a boat right now, somewhere between the Galapagos and Costa Rica… I'm sure Grissom didn't feel the need to tell you guys but I'm on this amazing trip—walking in the footsteps of Darwin, you know?_

She smiled to herself—even when memories of Gil hurt, they made her smile.

_Apparently though, I have delayed sea sickness. I've been good all trip, and now I'm stuck in my room with my nights and days reversed from the Dramamine. …It made me miss you guys, being up in the middle of the night. I hope you're all… being safe and… happy. I really hope you guys are happy. I miss you so much._

She tapped her foot, thinking about what to say next.

_One of the people on the trip who helped me to my cabin noticed the tattoo on my ankle today. It made me think of our decontamination shower, Greg. I kept waiting to hear a comment about it, and then you told me you'd been such a gentleman… I hadn't known you had it in you. _

_…I think about you guys all the time._

_Nick—one of the people I've been exploring with… he uses the same deodorant you do… or did, I guess. I dunno, you might have switched since we worked together. Sorry, that seems like a weird thing to notice… it just… it reminds me of the lab whenever I smell it—makes me miss everyone so much my hair curls… though that might just be the humidity._

_…I guess I've lost you boys now. Catherine would understand… Tell her I said Hi, Brass too, and… that I'll be sending her something for Lindsey, once I get back to the States… it'll be a while though—three months at least. _

_Too bad you're not still a lab rat, Greg, or I could expect a response in five minutes… Oh well, I guess I'll just… talk to you when you guys get a chance. I miss you both._

_All my love, _

_Sara_

She reread it once and then clicked send before she could chicken out. It redirected her back to her inbox and, as the page was loading, she considered just closing the internet and trying to go back to bed. She hesitated, deciding she would wait up for five minutes and hit refresh, to see if it had been a slow night in the lab. Maybe she'd get lucky.

When the inbox loaded, she indulged herself, knowing that it was much too soon already—and her heart skipped a beat. _Gil had responded…_ she looked at the time of the email and then down at her clock. Three minutes ago. They had been thinking of each other at the same time, on opposite ends of the earth.

She clicked it eagerly, but then had to race to the bathroom again to vomit. When she returned, her face pale, Dramamine in hand but not yet taken, the screen had loaded. She sat down.

_Sara—_

_I wonder if I ever told you why I moved to Vegas in the first place—neither of us are natives to the place, which Catherine reminded me of earlier this week, and it occurred to me that I'd never told you why. _

_I moved so that I could gamble—play poker—because I needed the money. I was spending all my money on cadavers instead of on my college girlfriend. …Catherine's response was that she must not have been the right girl._

_I wonder if this is because, for the right girl, I would not have wanted the cadavers so badly or if, for the right girl, would not have expected me to give them up…_

_If I came and found you, wherever you are, Sara Sidle, would I be able to talk you into coming back home?_

_Gil_

She bit her bottom lip, clutching the Dramamine more tightly than she intended, reading and rereading his message. Why the hell was he being so cryptic? Was that supposed to mean that she was the right girl? What was the use of reminding her that neither of them were natives if he still expected her to go back there?

He didn't understand that it wasn't _home_ anymore—it couldn't be. Something about the city drug her down—she couldn't enter a casino, a tourist spot, a restaurant without a memory of a crime committed there or nearby or by someone who had lived close by, before being killed, and ate there and bought their cough syrup there… She couldn't go back.

She felt nauseous again, but held off, taking deep breaths to clear her head—she didn't want to be drowsy when she answered him. She didn't want to be angry when she answered him either, but calmness was a harder emotion to achieve than the first.

_Gil—_

_You hadn't told me the cards story. I know that I've told you my story—my reason for coming to Vegas. So you know that I've already been talked into moving there once and, forgive me, but I think I've been clear on my feelings about the place. _

_Catherine's question—and the multiple interpretations—all end with the same result. You wouldn't need extra money for the right girl, whether by virtue of your love or by virtue of hers. I wonder if the right girl would move back to a place that makes her unhealthy after already moving there for you once, or whether, for the right girl, you would not expect such things…_

_Maybe I'm just not the right girl. _

_Could the right girl beat you in poker, Gil Grissom? I already know all your ticks._

_Sara_

She hit send almost frantically, racing to the bathroom again, and then took another dose of Dramamine.

She shut her computer once the message had sent, not bothering to shut it down, and curled into bed. She didn't know if it was the drug or the hour of night or the exhaustion she felt from his email, but her eyes were closing even as she lifted her blankets over herself.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews!

This chapter is graphic, and violent. Please don't read if this will upset you.

...hope you enjoy! :) Let me know what you think!

* * *

She spent most of the next week in bed—not wishing to take the Dramamine until she actually felt nauseous because it effectively put her out for hours each time she took it. She went and saw the nurse on board, who said that while a side effect was drowsiness, the small amounts she was taking shouldn't be acting like sleeping pills.

Was she sleep deprived? The nurse wanted to know—the Dramamine could simply be helping her get to sleep and her body was taking advantage to catch up. Sara had laughed. She had probably missed years worth of the sleep she should have gotten from working the graveyard and picking up doubles.

So, as long as they were out to sea, Sara decided to let her body get the rest it apparently needed, only letting the medication assist when she felt beyond nauseous—she had to be dry heaving to take it. Maybe she'd be well-rested by the time they arrived in Costa Rica.

Ian was frustrated—a good part of his excitement came from the time of the trip spent over water, being a marine biologist and all. He had wanted to share this time with her but one look at her told him she was miserable. She seemed to be stuck on nights again, no matter how she mixed up the times she let herself take her medicine. She figured it would right itself again in the end, either on its own or when she could stop vomiting without medication.

In the mean time, Ian was coming to see her when he woke up—they would have sex or eat breakfast or sit and talk, depending on the day—and then he would go about his day and Sara would slip into sleep. This arrangement felt more like a booty call than a fling, which she had a bigger problem with, but she never felt lonely anymore, and every few days she could expect an email from the guys, even if Gil was not so reliable.

Somehow, she had carved out a place for herself on the outskirts of both worlds—and soon she would be back to sleeping nights, once she finally reached dry land. It was good that she'd spent so many years as a shut in—it was not a hard lifestyle to go back to, really.

The next email she did receive from Gil was a little over a week from the time she had received the last one—she didn't know if he didn't answer sooner because he was busy or distracted or simply disinterested, but his words did not seem disinterested.

_Sara—_

_The right girl knew my ticks well enough to see that I wanted her even when I didn't see it. The right girl knew me well enough to get me to let my guard down—to put away my poker face. The right girl taught me new ticks. The right girl taught me what love is._

_If you never saw the inside of the crime lab again, would you come home to me?_

_Gil_

He had certainly been more direct this time, but the location had not changed. She might know his ticks, but he apparently didn't know hers.

_Gil—_

_You know I couldn't keep away from the place, especially if you still worked there. Vegas isn't my home anymore. Vegas made me leave the only home I've ever had. _

_We land in Costa Rica tomorrow, for the month—hopefully my sea sickness will pass and I'll be back to sleeping nights. I won't be able to email as often, but then, you only make it a weekly priority anyway, so it should be fine. Let Greg and Nick know too, won't you?_

_Sara_

She knew it was not necessarily fair of her to be mad at him—she had left him—but he had forced her to let him go, to break whatever part of her was left yet unbroken, and now expected her to find him and pick up her own pieces.

She couldn't help being angry when she wrote to him—but she was never angry with him when Ian was there. She would close her eyes from the moment he kissed her, unless it was dark enough for her eyes to obscure the details rather than her mind, and think of the man she had left behind in all his card-playing, cadaver-buying, bug-loving glory.  
_  
_Things started to change when they landed. She felt infinitely better—didn't need the Dramamine anymore, and did go back to sleeping nights. Ian seemed to feel this was an invitation to spend every night in her room and she started rejecting his advances—they came too often and too persistently, and she didn't feel right… like she was living with another man when she had only meant to be sleeping with him.

When they moved inland, to the research center, and switched to tents, Sara had to put her foot down, demanding that they have separate tents and spend the night together a few times a week instead. She had the feeling he would have argued if he thought it would make her give in—his concern was for himself, not for her comfort level.

Knowing this, her comfort level decreased. She changed her computer passwords to the names of people she had never referenced in front of him and kept everything personal packed in a certain, specific way, so that she would know if anything had been disturbed.

He had been talking about her visiting him in Boston and Sara found herself sidetracking, listing the number of things she had waiting for her in Vegas. His response was that she could have just as many things in Boston, if she gave it a try. He wanted her to move there. She began to fantasize—wondering if she told Gil that if he came and rescued her, she would endure Vegas until they could figure out something better.

She had been foolish not to get to know anyone else on the trip better—she did not know in whom to confide. Although he did not come to her tent every night, it seemed like he was present whenever the light of her computer filled the tent. And she no longer felt like there would be no consequences to avoiding his advances—nothing physical, he was too smart for that—but she was still afraid.

Now when she buried her face in her pillows and thought of Gil, she was fighting back tears rather than his name. She didn't want Ian to see her tears—it was too private for him.

It was not that she was unwilling to fight back—but she had an innate sense that to seem too strong was dangerous—it would be both arousing and troubling to him. She had gotten glimpses into too many assailants' minds to not be aware of this—and so she was cautious.

She used her computer at dawn after nights she'd spent alone—it was too bright for him to see the light from her screen, and early enough to have an excuse to be in the tent. She hesitated before she wrote—disregarding the unanswered email from the guys because she knew her time was limited. Gil had not been discouraged by her scathing email, though it was unlike him to remain so forward. She was not complaining.

_Sara—_

_I'm asking you to return home much more than I am asking about Vegas. The home you claimed Vegas made you leave. My only hesitation in leaving the city is not over the lab, though I know you will not believe me in this claim. My hesitation is in leaving the only extended family either you or I have—I do think that we can survive anything. Come home, and we'll fix everything. I promise. _

_I love you._

_Gil_

She stared at the words, more surprised that she could even comprehend. She was about to type a response—beg him to come get her—when she hesitated. Would he forgive her the sin of Ian, in her weakness and anger and pain?

She heard movement in the tent next to hers and felt she could not take the chance—she would have to try again another time. She shut down the computer as fast as she could, replacing it in her bag too hastily and diving onto her little camp bed, under the covers. She heard his footsteps outside her tent, pausing to listen for movement in her own, and then they continued on.

She sighed, rolling onto her back, knowing she only had a moment to slow her breathing and get dressed before he was back. She was more hopeful now than she had been in a long time—she was leaving the jungle as soon as she could, on her own if she could manage it, by begging for Gil's help if she couldn't. She just had to pray that he could forgive her indiscrepancies.

She allowed him to have her every night that week, hoping that he would be satisfied and leave her a night to herself, because she was going to need her computer to get out of here, whether by her own volition or through Gil. He seemed to sense something had changed in her though, because he stayed unnecessarily close most of the time, even though they both knew she wouldn't risk using the computer during the day.

Sara wasn't even quite sure why she was afraid of him. He had changed how he behaved towards her, yes, but he had never hit her… still, something about him made the hair on her neck stand on edge—like disobedience would have consequences far more subtle and far-reaching than bruises.

It was nearing the end of the week—Sara was getting desperate, thinking of sneaking her computer into the ladies' shower area to email Gil. She would definitely pay some consequence for it, though she did not know what, but it would mean that he was coming for her. Certainly he would come if she told him it was urgent? He had found her in an unidentifiable stretch of desert on the doors of death—he could find her at a well mapped camp near the Central American Research Center, right?

She was not yet desperate enough to risk the trip to the bathroom—hoping she could wait it out until she had a moment—but her every waking thought was of him and of every moment he had ever spent with her, every time he had ever saved her. The desert was not the first time—a mental patient had held her at knife point… she had been on the brink of her own self destruction more times than he even knew, yet he had been her saving grace every time.

She no longer thought that steely gray waves could be imagined into salt and pepper curls in the dark, and his green eyes were flat and menacing—not the insightful and inspiring blue that pierced her to the depths of her being.

Though thoroughly distracted by her fantasies, there are some things that cannot help but catch one's attention.

On the night it had been three months exactly that she and Grissom had last made love—consoling each other in the perfect puzzle piece fit they had never, ever appreciated enough—Ian arrived in Sara's tent and demanded to have her without a condom. Why had she never let them, he argued. Why didn't she want to feel him inside her?

She stuttered out that she was not on birth control, but it appeared those were the words he had wanted to hear. It was the first night that Sara's tacit acceptance could not be used as a shield for him to hide his perversions behind. She was bound and gagged and raped from behind, multiple times.

Every time he had finished inside her he had pointed out how his sperm had nowhere to go—how a baby was inevitable—and Sara understood. If he were the father of her baby, she could not get away from him. Courts would not likely to deny paternal visitation to a man who had never hurt the child, no matter what the woman had endured.

She felt sick to her stomach—the next month was going to be torture… waiting on a period and then, if it didn't come, the decision to keep this man's child growing within her… it would be half hers. Could she really terminate a pregnancy, even if it was by this monster?

And Gil—would Gil be able to forgive her with the proof of her infidelity ever-present, needing to be fed and changed and...

And that was when Sara Sidle knew she was pregnant—that she had been pregnant for three months now, oblivious to morning sickness and the apparent bloating that made her pants just a little too snug, and the constant sleeping. She was carrying the baby of the man she loved—this knowledge burned within her like a talisman, but she hid it, not letting the light reach her eyes.

She was now even more scared of what he could do to her…what he could do to the tiny body growing inside her despite her blatant ignorance. He had drained himself inside her as many times as he could manage and then forced her to lie on the floor of the tent naked, her legs in the air, propped against the bed, to increase their chances.

She had let the tears fall that she hadn't let him see before, and he seemed to relax…seemed to think he'd broken her. He untied her, after an hour, and allowed her back into the bed, though it was with him, and she didn't sleep. She pretended to be asleep when he got up early that next morning, headed for the showers.

Once his footsteps had carried him out of earshot, she inspected the damage. The bruising on her wrists was minimal…could be explained away as a friction burn from a camera strap. Her face looked fine, normal even… she decided to grab her things and shower before he came back.

Gathering her things, she stopped at the kit she had brought with her more because she couldn't go anywhere without it than out of actual need. She grabbed several swabs and a plastic bag and tucked them into her shower bag, wrapped in her towel.

She might not have any powers here, but she was going to have proof of their vaginal and seminal fluids coexisting—the evidence might not be admissible in court, but she couldn't just do nothing.

Swabbed and photographed, she wrapped her evidence in the plastic bag and then showered under the hottest water she could coax from the tap, burning away every trace of him and replacing it mentally with a memory of something Gil had done to that body part instead, until every inch of her was coated in memories, and she did not feel naked anymore.

She dressed quickly, scrunching her hair to add some control to the curl but adding no product—she'd be covered in bugs all day even without it. She smiled then—very serene for a woman the morning after an assault—Gil would probably love to find her covered in bugs. She giggled to herself, straightening her shirt. Just the thought of him filled her with more strength than she'd ever had before—a different kind of strength than she'd ever had—she would have to endure rather than fight; She was thinking for… three now.

She made sure to wipe the smile from her face before she exited the bathroom and was lucky—he was not in the tent and she had a moment to tuck the swabs to the bottom of her kit, under all the clean swabs. The difference was not detectible even to her trained eye—she'd been looking at these kits for most of her life, it seemed. She closed it quickly and then gathered her camera, intent upon not upsetting him until she had a chance to contact Gil for help.

In the mean time, it was a waiting game…

It was nearing noon—the hottest part of the day—and she was questioning how long she could look busy and unconcerned. She didn't want to return to the tent and allow herself to be cornered, but she was dead on her feet, tired, and thirsty. She sighed, committing herself to five more minutes before she allowed herself a break.

A small monkey had wandered into camp, leaning over a branch to inspect their camp. It made her smile—if only Gil were here to see it. He would love it here, under different circumstances.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

A/N: How many saw this coming, when she was looking at the monkey? :)

Also, what do you think is going to happen, once they get home...? Hmm...

Story is far from over! Let me know what you think!

* * *

She heard a footstep behind her and turned reluctantly, reminding herself of the much-needed strength and will-power to not react to him. She could not rise to any provocation…

But it wasn't Ian…

As if from a dream, Gil Grissom emerged from the jungle and into her clearing, silly straw hat and all. It took her a moment before she could believe it was real. She smiled at him, slowly, still in disbelief—he always knew just when to rescue her—and then they were moving towards each other, connecting in a kiss that spoke of more truth and light and real love than anything either of them had experienced up to this point.

She trembled in his arms—god, really and truly, his arms—and they reluctantly broke apart, both pairs of eyes shining. It was then that Grissom saw the shift in her eyes—a shift he had not often seen, but which he remembered exactly. He had witnessed it twice—when his mentor had implied she had moved evidence to protect her EMT boyfriend, and when he picked her up to take her home after the DUI. She felt she had let him down.

"Grissom… uh…" She took in a deep, shaking breath, but he cut her off.

"Grissom? Sara, you… you haven't called me that outside the lab for… years."

And then Ian came up to them, and as Grissom's hands were still resting on Sara's waist, he felt more than saw the way she jumped upon realizing he was there, and then his hands were empty.

"Ian! …This is, uh, Gil Grissom, forensic entomologist. Uh, Griss—Gil, this is Ian Peterson, marine biologist."

If Sara had not now looked afraid at his presence, Grissom would have worried that she'd moved on—that he had been too late to come to his senses and 'up the ante'. Grissom extended a hand to the man, and they shook cordially, but he did not fail to notice the possessive way he now held Sara's waist, nor that she seemed to be hiding the fact that his grip hurt her.

"Ian, um… I'm gonna catch up with... Grissom, for a minute. Unexpected surprise, you know?" She drew in another shaky breath but he nodded, the hand moving from her waist to the back of her neck and turning her head—too forcefully—to his for a kiss. She had tears in her eyes when he pulled away—having never wanted Grissom to see her with another man—but he left them, and that was imperative right now.

She turned a guilty eye back to Gil, her eyes pleading for understanding, and he tried very, very hard to put his hurt aside until he understood what was going on. She led him into her tent and then broke down, sitting on her camp bed and crying. She struggled to stop herself, drawing in gasping sobs, because now was not the moment to be weak. He had come for her—she must explain herself.

And then she felt herself cradled against his chest, and her pain immediately eased. He smelled wonderful—a mixture of his deodorant and his soap and his body's natural musk. When she had calmed herself, she felt him gently drawing her face up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter to me, Sara. Do you… do you still love me?"

Tears fell silently down her cheeks now. "I do."

He smiled, wiping them with his thumb. "Do you want to come home with me? Today?" The sooner they were away from whatever was scaring her, the better.

She nodded, swallowing hard. He hugged her tightly and pulled back again to survey her face. "Why don't you pack up your things…? I'll go talk to someone about getting a ride to the airport."

"No!"

He was startled by the urgency and fear in her voice. "Gil, don't… don't leave me alone. I'm afraid… while you're gone…"

He took her shoulders gently. "Okay, darling, okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We'll pack up together. Is all of your stuff in here? Come on, where's your suitcases?"

And so they packed up all of Sara's belongings together, which were not many, and made their way down to the only building in the immediate area—a small medical center attached to a garage and an even smaller office. Grissom stayed no further than a half foot away from her, and once he had explained that there had been a family emergency—a death in the family, to explain away her tears—and that they needed to get to the nearest airport, they were glad to arrange for a car and the pair loaded their belongings in silence.

Grissom desperately wanted to know what had happened to put a fear in her eyes that not even Vegas could have managed, but he knew that it was neither the time nor place. They waited by the car, not wishing to encounter anyone else while they waited—they were told it could be up to an hour until someone was free to drive them—and Grissom hesitantly put his arm around her waist.

She did not cringe in pain or fear, as she had when the other man had had his hands on her, but seemed relieved to feel him touching her and leaned against his shoulder, eyes closing. "I'm so glad you're here, Gil…"

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words never made it out. The person they had waited here to avoid had sought them out instead.

"What's going on here? Sara?"

She stood up to pull away from him, scared, but Gil narrowed his eyes and firmly kept his arm around her—it was possessive, but there was something different about the way Grissom staked his claim and the way Ian did. He possessed her only because she wanted him to, and she possessed him as well… less about property, more about devotion.

Some color returned to Sara's cheeks when he did this, and she leaned her body back against him, though it was still tensed, allowing him to set the tone of the interaction. It made him smile—it was trust mixed with a desire to be _his_.

"We're leaving." Sara was surprised by the authority behind his voice. He spoke calmly, even politely, but it was nonnegotiable.

"Really? I wonder if Sara has told you what she's running from…? Don't you think she'll run from it whether she's here or in Vegas—maybe even more so in Vegas?"

"We won't be in Vegas."

"Did she tell you that she could be carrying my baby as we speak?" Although these words rattled Grissom, he had spent years interrogating criminals—he was nothing if not capable of a poker face.

"Should I consider that a confession of her rape, or will your semen and her bruises have to do the confessing for you?"

"It isn't rape if she enjoyed it… begged me to take her… said you could never get her off the way I could."

Grissom looked disgusted at the other man's words, the glint in his eyes. "This is disgusting and you are disgusting. I don't know yet exactly what you did to put a fear in her eyes that not a thousand corpses and their unrepentant killers could, but you will never, ever touch her again."

Ian jerked strangely, as if to reach forward and grab her from him, but Grissom was quicker, and then she was behind him, pressed between his body and the vehicle they had been leaning against. "And if you really think I would be threatened by a man who was so _obviously_ chosen because he's poor man's version of me… well, then, you're not smart enough to even be a _good_ imitation."

This made him angry, and Sara was scared that they would fight, and Gil would get hurt, but Ian just looked around him, overly aware of others in range of sight, even if they would not have heard the exchange. Someone walked out into the garage then, and Ian walked off angrily. They rode in silence to the airport, her left hand on his knee, sandwiched between both of his, the fingers on his right hand trailing anxiously over the bruising there, but they did not discuss it yet.

When they finally arrived at the airport, they were hot and thirsty. Grissom pulled out a credit card she and him had gotten together—an 'emergencies only' credit card—to pay for their tickets home. Although it was quite expensive, she was moderately surprised… he generally kept a good deal of money in his checking account at any given time. Maybe he was worried about the vacation days he must have taken to come retrieve her…

She smiled—it was nice that they were paying for their escape together. "I missed you, Gil." She hugged him, her arms around his waist, and he smiled.

"I missed you too, Sara. Can we… talk yet or…"

"…Let's see if we can find a place where we won't be…overheard."

They moved through the terminal, checking no luggage—they had both come with only enough for a carry on, though Sara had to stuff her purse in her already small bag so that she could claim her kit was her 'personal item' that she was allowed in addition to the carry on.

It was crowded, the air filled with Spanish—it was dizzying, a constant hum swirling around her—and she was relieved to find a quiet corner to sit down and wait for their flight. She sighed heavily, not wanting to see the disappointment and disgust in his eyes when she told him that she had begun her relationship with Ian willingly…

She swallowed hard, looking at her feet. It was he who broke the silence, not her. "How are your wrists? Do they hurt?"

She looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time—they looked worse than they had this morning in the bathroom. They would probably be darker yet tomorrow. Of course Gil would have noticed—would have known. She shrugged meekly, but let him inspect them more freely.

"When… did it happen?" Her eyes lifted, almost dully, to his. If she tried to keep her distance, maybe she could get through this without breaking down again.

"When did I sleep with him or when did he rape me?"

The question was simple—intoned without expression—but it communicated her sin to him, proving his suspicions to be right; she had chosen this man, albeit for his similarities to himself. He let his eyes drift for a moment as he often needed to whilst thinking, and then met her eyes again.

"…Both, I guess." There was no malice in his voice. She blinked back her tears.

"…maybe… three weeks after I sent you the video. When you didn't respond I… I thought you had taken the way out I'd given you, and were happy for it. I didn't… love him, Gil. I didn't even like him. He was just…"

"He reminded you of me."

Her eyes closed heavily and he took it as assent.

"When did it stop being… consensual?" His eyes tightened in pain, but he did not waver—Sara was a victim in this moment, and he needed to worry about her before he thought of himself. She drew in a shuddering breath.

"When I got sick… I stayed in my cabin… probably only saw him about an hour a day. I didn't notice the change until we landed, but my distance is probably what set him off… It was in Costa Rica that I noticed… He would never hit me but… I felt like he expected obedience and if I… if I didn't… I was scared of him, even though he never touched me… So when he'd come to my tent I… I didn't feel like I could say no without…" She took another deep breath and wiped the tears that had begun to trail down her cheeks away impatiently. "Last night was… the only time it was… violent."

He pulled her to his chest without a word and she clung there, drawing in gasping breaths and attempting to restrain the tears that came and came now, no matter how often she wiped them away. When she had calmed a little, he chanced another question. "And the… baby… comment?"

Her eyes hardened in response, and she sniffled loudly in disgust. "We always used a condom. I wouldn't let… I didn't want…"

She could not describe the revulsion she felt, struggling to explain that even though she had hidden her loneliness in the arms and the bed of another man, she had still been unwilling to have him touching her so intimately without a barrier. Gil was the only man she wanted to be that close to her… Words failed her, but the look on his face implied that he understood, a little, and so she continued instead with her larger explanation.

"But last night he… didn't…" the tears started again, and Grissom was now wiping them gently from her cheeks as she spoke. "And he kept… telling me that…" She drew another shuddering breath. "He…ejaculated…" She used the formal word, in hopes of feeling more like she was on a case than describing her own life, "four…five times… He made me lay on the ground with my… my feet…" She swallowed a sob and sniffled again, struggling to get the words out, "…with my feet up so that it would… I would…"

He understood, and kissed the tears on each of her cheeks gently. "But you're on birth control, right?" He did not seem worried—it was his actions which hurt her, not his poorly concocted plans. When she didn't answer, he shook her shoulder, starting to panic. "Sara, you're still on the pill, aren't you?"

She drew in a deep breath and met his eyes. "He didn't get me pregnant, Gil."

"You're…sure? How do you know?" He looked down at her stomach, as if the words 'pregnant' or 'not pregnant' would be stamped there for clarification purposes. She laughed a little, and the sound startled him—he hadn't heard her laugh in so long.

"I'm sure."

"How do you know?"

"I know." She responded, and her shortness confused him. Maybe it was a part of the rape she didn't want to discuss… but that didn't make sense. Why would he have raped her…other places…if he had wanted her to get pregnant? And why was it that he wanted that again?

"Why did he want you pregnant?"

"I didn't need him."

He tilted his head, confused. She elaborated.

"He tried to talk me into moving to Boston…even just visiting Boston… I refused, I made excuses, I made bad jokes about tea parties… but no matter how he tried to convince me, and no matter how scared he could tell I was, I didn't back down. And I never cried in front of him… I never told him things that were personal—he knew about the lab, but he knew nothing about my past or my future. How else was he going to hold me?"

They sat in silence for several minutes, Grissom's jaw set tight, Sara's mind going back over her own statements. "He… he untied me, once I started crying… after I'd been lying naked on the cold floor of the tent for nearly an hour with my legs in the air…" She paused again and he watched her, knowing she wasn't done yet. This was how she vented… in bits and pieces all fractured together to fit a larger problem. "I wish I hadn't let him see that… I wish he had left me tied up all night instead."

Grissom nodded, knowing it would be useless to tell her that it was better that she'd been untied—she viewed crying in front of him as a win for him and a loss for her… arguing that wouldn't help them right now. He glanced around, as if to make sure, and then asked the question he had been putting off.

"Sara… I'll need to do an SAE kit on you… have you showered… since?"

She trembled. "I took swabs…and pictures…before I showered."

"You know that it isn't admissible if you collect it…"

"It's hardly admissible if a man I lived with and planned to marry collects it… the D.A. would laugh at you."

"There's no one else who can do it though. They would make an exception."

"You weren't there this morning, Gil. I had no idea how long I would have to wait before I could get away from him… and I wasn't going to leave any part of him on me for even a second longer than it took to process myself and hide the evidence."

"I know, honey. I'm sorry."

She smiled softly, a hand reaching up to touch his cheek. "I've missed that… missed you… so much. …I'm sorry that I left, again… it was a bad time."

He smiled too, having long since forgiven her. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come after you…"

He kissed her gently, hesitantly, worrying that the night she had just experienced would make her adverse to such things, but she returned the kiss deeply, urgently, almost desperately. He tried to pull from her and she would not break the kiss, until finally he was laughing against her lips as she held him.

"Sara, I'm not going anywhere…" She smiled a little sheepishly at how well he knew her.

"Just…making up for lost time…"

He smiled, looking at her luscious lips again, and then frowned.

"What?" She asked, disliking the new pucker to his previously smiling features.

He placed a hand gently to her chin and turned her face, to inspect the left corner of her mouth. It looked red, raw, almost like she had a cut there…or as if the skin had torn. He gently tilted her head to reveal the other side, seeing the same thing.

"Sara…"

She pulled her face out of his hands. "All the tents are fairly close together… I'm sure he worried that I would scream. …I tried to scream."

He did not respond, but pulled her tight to him and did not let go until their flight was called and they got up to board the plane. When they had sat down again, he looked at her—the way the airplane lights hit her face threw the lines on it into sharp relief. She had heavy bags under her eyes.

"Why don't you try to sleep, honey? It's going to be a long flight…" She frowned a little, but did feel exhausted. "I'll be right here the whole time."

She grumbled, feeling the need to argue without necessarily having a good reason why. "What happens when you have to go to the bathroom? 'It's going to be a long flight…'" She quoted him.

He smiled, unable to be mad now that she was his again. "I'll wake you before I go."

She smiled a little. "Do you remember the first time we were ever on a plane together?"

"Yeah, of course. We were processing a jet… you told me how you'd joined the mile high club…" He chuckled. "If there hadn't been a million reasons why I couldn't… I would have taken you there in that bathroom and shown you that it was the guy who was overrated, not the experience."

She giggled. "We wouldn't have _had_ the experience, we weren't in the air…"

He leaned in to her and nipped her ear gently with his teeth, causing her to gasp softly. "It still would have trumped the hazel-eyed T.A."

"How do you remember all that?"

His blue eyes were intense. "I remember everything."


End file.
